


baby, it's oh so rare

by fatal



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: First Kiss, Getting Together, M/M, Pining, very soft very delicate third year boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:21:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22825144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatal/pseuds/fatal
Summary: Kageyama doesn’t know when their once-obstinate river of distance, stretched between them since the shadow days of Kitagawa Daiichi, started closing to the point wherethiswas now normal. Close proximity, soft flares of contact at wrists and elbows, comfortable silence, careless, shared breathing.But the distance did close—always furtively, always by small increments.
Relationships: Kageyama Tobio/Kunimi Akira
Comments: 28
Kudos: 235





	baby, it's oh so rare

**Author's Note:**

> [this is the song they listen to](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fhXOTTk2Of4) ♡
> 
> thank you jo @ [bluetobio](https://twitter.com/bluetobio) for dragging me into kunikage hell and birthing the premise of the scene ily

As most of their hangouts seem to start lately, Kageyama’s met by an uninvited Kunimi at his door, arm raised to hold up a worn CD sleeve. This time, a photo of three women grace the sleeve’s cover, each wearing cool expressions and identically cool leather jackets. 

“An American 90’s girl group. _702_.” This is all Kunimi says, not waiting for a response before breezing past a frowning Kageyama, who’s left still leaning against the doorway. Kunimi, as Kageyama has learned over the past year, considered himself somewhat of a music _connoisseur. _

_(“Fancy way of saying snob,” Kageyama laughed, earning a glare from Kunimi.)_

In contrast, Kageyama knows hardly any song titles beyond whatever’s on the radio, or whatever booms throughout stadiums before official matches. Kageyama’s convinced that Kunimi keeps coming over with secondhand CDs in all kinds of languages and genres—_melancholy flamenco one day, Avant-Garde nu-metal from Moscow the next_—as some kind of charity to _“educate his uncultured ears attuned to the soundtrack of volleyballs dropping only,” _or something. 

If Kageyama lets it happen because he likes Kunimi’s company, no one has to know. 

And as most of their hangouts seem to end lately, Kageyama finds himself sprawled close to Kunimi on a sofa too small for two growing seventeen-year-old boys, sun starting to set after hours spent listening to whatever new records or playlists Kunimi brought over. Though he doesn’t admit it, Kageyama likes this _702_ album a bit more than some of Kunimi’s other recent picks. 

_Get It Together,_ one of Kunimi’s favourites on the track-list (and secretly one of Kageyama’s favourites, too), plays on a loop as Kunimi’s eyes flutter closed, head propped against the sofa’s armrest. Kunimi often ends up falling asleep at some point during their impromptu listening parties.

The setter beside him can’t help but stare, though at this point Kageyama’s probably committed the cartography of Kunimi’s face to memory—the longitude and latitude of each gentle line, the shape and depth of each delicate shadow. The way the shadows shift depending on the hour of day, somehow heavier in the mornings, more buoyant past midnight. Reclined over the couch, Kunimi Akira is a study in languid beauty, easy elegance. Kageyama marvels at how the boy so often makes an accidental art out of lethargy.

(This staring, too, long became a running theme during their time together.)

Kageyama doesn’t know when their once-obstinate river of distance, stretched between them since the shadow days of Kitagawa Daiichi, started closing to the point where this was now _normal. _Close proximity, soft flares of contact at wrists and elbows, comfortable silence, careless, shared breathing. 

But the distance did close—always furtively, always by small increments. 

Maybe it started during their first year games, Kageyama’s skin thrumming with adrenaline, sharp eyes latching to Kunimi’s always-deliberate form. Watching him spike and sweat and _smile_ across the net_,_ chest heaving graceless under fluorescent lights. The tangled heap of shock, pride, guilt, and grief blooming reckless against Kageyama’s chest. The kept knowledge that Kunimi studied him in turn. 

Kageyama watches Kunimi now, asleep beneath an amber rectangle of sunset. He’s uncurled and lazy on the couch, exhales quiet like a secret.

Maybe the river started drying in earnest second year, with that one impromptu night and the endless line of a volleyball passed between the two of them. A humid night unfurled to clandestine weekly practices, feet digging into grass under Miyagi’s rolling blanket of stars. 

Or sometime after Lunar New Year, when Kageyama arrived at their meeting point with both hands full—one hand gripping a volleyball, the other palm closed around embroidered red fabric. The wordless, bashful motion of Kageyama handing Kunimi the silk pouch, swollen with paper-wrapped salted caramels, blue eyes fixedly downcast. 

Or later still, when midnight silence dissolved to faint leaks of music through tinny phone speakers. Kageyama’s insomnia, soothed by a balm of bittersweet, acoustic guitar rifts drifting in tune to Kunimi’s breathing. 

Kageyama’s eyes soften at the sight of Kunimi’s relaxed expression now. Kunimi’s hooded eyes were still closed, dark hair brushing against his temple. 

Counting each eyelash stilled against his cheekbone, Kageyama thinks, a_h. I should’ve known getting this close to Kunimi guaranteed falling for him, too. _

Startled, Kageyama tears his gaze away from Kunimi. Eyes dart elsewhere—the window, the azalea plant, the leftover tonkatsu, anywhere but that unfairly pretty face.  _Huh. So this is what all those radio songs never seem to shut up about. _ Kageyama’s hands flutter to his stomach, pressing at a sudden pressure building there. 

More than anything, Kageyama felt annoyed at himself. The past three years he’s spent in Kunimi’s orbit, _rotating closer and closer_, cling onto his skin, candle-warm but mirror-sharp. His longing circles thick around him, taut and precarious as wires at his feet. Even lying beside Kunimi on the couch, Kageyama envisioned himself on the verge of tripping. One clumsy ankle away from lacerated limbs and a floor full of shards. 

_We were so close. So close to fixing everything. _

And yet, in spite of everything, a simple glance at Kunimi’s sleeping face replaced all that bad feeling with an easy wash of tenderness, warm as the sky’s red curtains sinking to earth outside the window. 

Kageyama hovers a hand above Kunimi’s head, then hesitates.  “Kunimi?” The name leaves Kageyama’s lips in a soft, tentative breath. 

“Kunimi, Kunimi.” Kageyama drifts closer to the sleeping boy. His spine bends forward unaware, like a stem in a field pushed soft by wind. 

“Akira, are you awake?” Kunimi remains motionless on the couch, breathing deep and even. 

Flushing, Kageyama takes a slow breath before moving a hand to the smooth, dark curtain of hair falling at Kunimi’s forehead. Giving into instinct, he brushes Kunimi’s bangs back, careful setter’s hands coaxed to upmost gentleness. Court-calloused fingers dance up from Kunimi’s temple, carding slow and rhythmic against the top of his scalp. 

Kageyama senses a subtle tilt of Kunimi’s head beneath his hands. Heat blossoms across Kageyama’s face. His fingers stop mid-motion, but he doesn’t withdraw completely. Instead, Kageyama curls a careful hand to press, soft, behind the shell of Kunimi’s ear.

Kunimi’s closed lids twitch subtly, nose wrinkling, before blinking open to meet Kageyama’s blue stare. The rays falling from the window make deep, amber pools out of Kunimi’s eyes. Transfixed as if by a spell, Kageyama can’t bring himself to glance away.

For a moment, the two just look at each other, 702’s song continuing to play in the background. _(I don’t really wanna stay. I don’t really wanna go.)_

Though he tries, Kageyama can’t read Kunimi’s expression at all. _It’s good that Kunimi’s so into music, _Kageyama thinks distantly._ Otherwise we’d probably spend most of our time just in silence._

_(But I really need to know, can we get it together?)_

Kageyama loses track of how many seconds tick past before Kunimi’s inscrutable expression softens, the corner of his mouth lifting in the smallest half-smile. Kunimi’s dark eyes flash, narrowed and sly, _and maybe even a little bashful?_

Kunimi lifts a gentle hand to Kageyama’s jaw, head tilting forward, and Kageyama’s heart stutters in his chest. Kageyama bends forward in turn, eyelids falling. 

But then Kunimi moves his mouth just beside Kageyama’s ear, and lets out a breathy half-whisper that Kageyama _feels_ as much as hears, warm and ticklish against the shell. An unbidden shiver swims its way down Kageyama’s spine.

“Kageyama. If I’m reading this all wrong, just stop me right now.” 

Kageyama feels his breath stick to the walls of his throat. Not trusting himself to speak, Kageyama moves the hand still resting against Kunimi’s head, thumbing at the smooth line of skin between his hairline and ear. He doesn’t break away from Kunimi’s gaze, eyes wide with silent permission. _Please. _

Then Kunimi turns his head, and bitten lips brush light against Kageyama’s ear. 

And then his cheekbone. Beside his brow. His forehead. The bridge of his nose. The line of his jaw. Kunimi renders Kageyama dizzy and breathless, drawing a weightless trail along the plains of his face. 

Somehow, Kageyama hadn’t expected Kunimi to be so _gentle_. The travelling press of his lips was tender enough to ache, like phantoms and good dreams that disappear come morning.  Kageyama flutters his eyes closed, wanting to measure and memorize the exact softness of Kunimi’s lips, the exact rhythm and warmth of Kunimi’s stuttering breath. Wanting this to never end. Wanting so much more. 

When Kunimi finally presses barely-there lips against Kageyama’s own, Kageyama is right there to meet him. He presses a palm against the back of Kunimi’s neck to pull him closer.  Kageyama deepens the kiss, wanting to chase away any chance of this being a dream, to spin the moment’s sweet ache into something solid.  A small gasp leaves Kunimi’s mouth and Kageyama is quick to chase it. He thinks he could get drunk on this: on Kunimi’s sounds, on his touch, on the pinkness making a garden out of his skin. 

They stay like that for a long time. Two boys on a couch in Miyagi drink in each other’s touch, music continuing to play in the absence of language. It’s not until much later, Kunimi’s nose tucked beneath Kageyama’s jaw, that either of them say much of anything. 

There on the sofa, they're slotted together like two crescent-moons in the dark. Kageyama parts his mouth at the motion of Kunimi’s smile against his neck, and the warm breath that comes with with the words, “took you long enough.” 

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first hq fic aaahhhh!!


End file.
